Fashion and I have parted company

One is a christening at which I am delighted to have been asked to fulfil the role of godmother; the other is the wedding of a friend I've known since my first year at Westfield School for Girls, circa 1975.

Both events require a spanking, sparkling new outfit - preferably one gorgeous frock that will serve me faultlessly on both dates.

Considering the fact that I'm actually prepared to spend (for me) quite a large amount of money on this mythical garment (ie, I've promised myself that I'll cast the net further than my usual bargain haunts - New Look and Primark) you'd think that my quest would relatively simple, but how wrong would you be.

I've just returned from a Sunday afternoon trawl of the Harlequin centre that has left me with the sinking feeling that fashion and I have finally parted company.

I don't know what sort of perverse or malevolent spirit has possessed the arbiters of high street fashion this year, but I can only hazard a guess that it's a particularly cruel one. Only a sado-masochist would dress the average lettuce-skinned, mouse-haired British female in the colours currently filling the racks.

Apparently fashionistas refer to these horrendous shades as "citrus brights", but my advice to anyone paler that Naomi Campbell is avoid', unless you want to end up looking like a lemon.

I think it was after trying on the fifth or maybe the sixth luridly "citrus" psychedelic, smock-shaped frock last weekend that I finally realised that, for me, dressing like Madonna has more in common with the year 1407 than 2007.

While St Madge might look pretty hot in her latest 70s-inspired capsule collection for H&M, unfortunately the average woman hovering around her 40th birthday and trussed up in the same outfits looks like something overly fleshy and vaguely sacrificial depicted in a dark corner of a gothic northern European church.

For me, the worst moment occurred last weekend when I ventured forth from a changing cubicle to get a better look at one particularly vibrant lime green, ruched smocky dress, only to be joined in front of the mirror by a gorgeous, leggy 16-year-old trying on the same outfit. Imagine a sturdy, elderly corgi standing next to a greyhound and you'll get a fair impression of the scene.

This unfortunate coincidence has only happened to me once before.

Many moons ago when I went for the first fitting of my wedding dress, I happened to be in the next cubicle to very large lass who had chosen exactly the same frock as mine. As luck would have it, both our mums were outside the fitting rooms as we simultaneously swept out to reveal identical gowns in sizes 6 and 22 respectively.

It was one of those moments when my late mum was arrayed in maternal glory.

Instead of gloating over the fact that her own daughter (me!) looked like a pixie princess, she went into overdrive praising the womanly curves and fantastic fit of the dress clinging to the bumps of the fat girl standing next to me.

To this day, I still reckon that my outsize fellow bride and her mum went away perfectly content in the knowledge that the dress looked better on a great big bird, largely due to my mum's embarrassment and consummate acting ability.

The tables were turned last week, however, and sadly no one was there to balm my wounded ego.

While the lissom teenager pouting into the mirror next to me looked like something from the latest issue of Vogue, I looked like a minor piece from the Lewis chess set.

Women past the age of 25 should beware the current trend for the 70s-style smock dress. Unless you are blessed with the legs of Uma Thurman and the bone structure of Cameron Diaz, these frocks bring out your inner pregnant gnome.

You might think that those forgiving, body-skimming layers celebrate your inner earth goddess while disguising your muffin top, but unless the Venus of Willendorf is your role model, this is a look best left to size zero teenagers!

The willowy young giraffe next to me cast a disdainful eye over my attempt to model the same frock, and, with a flick of her glossy, dark hair and a pout that would have electrified half of Bushey, turned on her long, long legs and stalked to the back of changing rooms where the contrast between us in the mirror was magnified by about 300 per cent.

She looked like a starlet, I looked like a guest at Abigail's Party - and not in a coolly ironic, retro kind of way.

Striking a pose that was vaguely reminiscent of Kate Moss at her most tantalisingly truculent, she annunciated very clearly and very precisely to her equally stunning friend: "Emmy, do you think this makes me look fat?"

It was at this point that I wished for the ground to spontaneously open up and swallow me.

Trying to make myself totally invisible, I melted back into the changing cubicle and wriggled out of the offending tent as quickly possible. It was only when I'd gratefully clambered back into my jeans and T-shirt, re-arranged the smocky horror back on its hanger and hooked it on the wall that I realised there was something vaguely familiar about it.

In fact, I experienced a moment of deja-vu as I mentally travelled back to the late 70s and realised that it was practically identical to a dress I had worn when I was 16.

Memo to self: n Very skinny teenagers and very pregnant women are the only people who can wear a smock dress with confidence.

n If you wore something the first time round, it won't do you any favours 20 years later.

n Girls called Amelia or Emily should be banned from all changing rooms in Watford.

n Shopping online is the way forward - in (cyber) space no one can hear you scream.